Running
by DolbyDigital
Summary: He spent his life running - never stopping - but he wasn't really going anywhere. And when he finally had a destination he just... stopped.


He spent his life running – never stopping – but he wasn't really going anywhere. And when he finally had a destination he just... stopped.

* * *

He couldn't cope with his family; to all outward appearances he was doing fine – treating it as a joke, even – but he was freezing in the cold and he didn't know how to stop it. So he ran. He was one of the first students in his year to get sorted, and he knew – just _knew_ – that this was his opportunity. Possibly the only one he would have. Possibly not, but this was the one thing he wasn't willing to risk.

_"You would do well in Slytherin, I see."_

_"No."_

_"No? You are determined, clever, ambitious. You possess qualities which could make you a great leader one day. You are resourceful-"_

_"No. I'm not going to be a Slytherin."_

_"You would do well in Slytherin. And your family-"_

_"NO!" _He might have said that part out loud; he received a strange look from the tall witch with the green hat, at least.

_"No." _He repeated, more subdued this time.

_"Very well. If that is your final decision."_

_"It is."_

_"Then... _GRYFFINDOR" The shout echoed around the hall, met only with stunned silence. As the hat was removed from his head he could see most of the Slytherin table were poised as if they were preparing to clap, confusion the dominant expression on a lot of their faces. The first clap came from behind him – one of the teachers – and then the Gryffindor table erupted into excessively loud cheers, as if making up for the lost time.

* * *

And for a time, everything was great. He wasn't running any more – or, at least he thought he wasn't – but he wasn't exactly dealing, either.

He spent Christmas at Hogwarts with one of his new-found friends who hadn't been going home. It was the best Christmas he could ever remember; full of jokes and laughter and brightly coloured paper strewn across the floor. They had stayed in their pyjamas all day – not something he'd ever done before – and it was amazing.

He got a book on Quidditch and one on the constellations; he got something that claimed to be an album, but he thought it might be broken – the pictures didn't move and he couldn't hear anything; he got more sweets than he knew what to do with; a Gryffindor scarf; a Slytherin tie; an old stuffed dog with patches of fur missing and some of the stuffing coming out from the back that was promptly hidden under his pillow.

It was perfect.

Summer wasn't so great, but he got through it by counting down the days until he could go back to Hogwarts – go back to his real home. He gouged a line into the floor under his bed for every day using a knife that he'd stolen from the kitchen. It didn't make the days go any faster, but it made it feel like he was getting closer.

* * *

Then he found out that one of his best friends was a _werewolf_ of all things, and he wasn't sure how to connect that to what he had known of the boy _before_. It was difficult to understand; difficult to accept; but he tried his best. He knew that a lot of his prejudices came from his family, and that revelation made him try even harder to accept his friend for this thing that was a part of him but wasn't the whole.

It was easy when he thought of it like that.

* * *

And then he was actually running – running down the stairs; out the front door; running away from home – and he hoped that this would be the time that he would finally get there. Get to the faraway place that was always just out of reach.

He ended up at James' doorstep – wet and muddy and shivering – and they'd let him in without a second thought. He wasn't sure this was the place, but it was certainly better than living with his parents.

* * *

Escaping Azkaban was easily the hardest thing he had ever done. Mostly because he didn't want to leave – he hated it there, of course, but it made him forget why he was running; forget that he _was_ running. It was easier that way, when he didn't have anything left but the vague idea of a place that he wanted to get to.

Peter resolved that; gave him a goal – even if it was something he would never be thankful for.

And once again he was running.

* * *

He didn't stop running after that. Not until he was laughing – truly laughing for the first time in years. It wasn't a laugh that he recognised – loud and harsh and more than a little insane – but it was the last thing he would ever hear as he was falling. Falling.

Falling past fluttering fabric and he thought maybe he heard screaming, but he couldn't be sure; couldn't hear anything past the roaring _relief_ in his ears.

He could finally stop running.


End file.
